


Missing You

by beekeepercain



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Sam Winchester, Crossing Timelines, M/M, Stanford Era, Top Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2016-02-17
Packaged: 2018-05-21 04:57:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6039067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beekeepercain/pseuds/beekeepercain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The board is self-made and the symbols, as far as he can tell, are made up, and he doesn’t want to be a killjoy - not with Jess sitting there. There’s no need to tell the group off for faking a thrill. “Merging timelines” is bullshit - Sam doesn’t even believe in timelines. He trusts what he’s seen, and an old test with scribbles on its back can hardly bend time.</p>
<p>(Or can it?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Missing You

**Author's Note:**

> Originally a response to a Tumblr post. Never posted this, because once upon a time I was slightly ashamed of my Wincest escapades. Well, no more. Better archive it before it gets lost (again).

* * *

   


Sam hates Halloween, but at least this game is harmless. The board is self-made and the symbols, as far as he can tell, are made up, and he doesn’t want to be a killjoy - not with Jess sitting there. There’s no need to tell the group off for faking a thrill. “Merging timelines” is bullshit - Sam doesn’t even _believe_  in timelines. He trusts what he’s seen, and an old test with scribbles on its back can hardly bend time.

“We’ll all place our hands on top of the paper,” the guy whose name escapes him starts with a fake serious tone of voice, “and tonight, someone will visit you from the future.”  


Right. Sam’s hand is on the bottom of the pile, and only Jess sees him roll his eyes.

“Killjoy,” she mouths voicelessly, winks, and Sam can’t help the blush on his cheeks.  


He drags himself back to his room at the dead of night with a hint of a headache and ears ringing from the loud music. No one’s around - no one cares, not on Halloween and he’s the first one back as always. A quick shower and he’s ready for bed, crashlanding into the mattress with a deep sigh, eyes already closed. He tucks his bare feet underneath the blanket and pats around to pull it over, hair still wet and dripping into the pillow; he’s too drunk to care, he’ll take care of it tomorrow, and with that thought he’s almost certainly falling asleep.

There’s movement in the room. Something shifts in the atmosphere and Sam stirs, uncertain if he’s awake or not. His instincts are picking up, and the smell of oxygen invades his nose, as if a thunderstorm has passed through his bedroom without him noticing. There’s another shift and the ground seems to shake a little, and just when he’s reaching for the light, there’s a palm pressing into his chest and a hand over his mouth.

“Shh, Sammy.”  


Dean?

The hand smells like rust, earth and the handle of some weapon or another. There’s no smell of leather on him, the usual that Dean has carried around ever since John gave him the jacket and the keys to the car - nothing of the sort, but his voice is… it’s the same, yet different. Lower. Broken.

The hand lifts from him.  
“The hell are you doing here?” Sam asks, pulling himself up, suspicious and in shock, strangely relieved to see the man, guilty; it’s a mess of feelings that he can’t pick through, all gathering up as a hard bit like a knot in his throat.  


It all seems to explode on him when Dean reaches into his hair, grips it and pulls his head back, mouth suddenly over his throat. For a second there Sam’s _certain_  he’s biting into him, either drinking his blood or tearing out his throat and the only explanation is that he’s _turned_  - it would explain the smell of him, the strangeness of him, and he’s _hurting_  not from the physical pain that he isn’t quite yet feeling but from the understanding that he’s lost his own brother - but the pain never comes. It never comes, and instead, he’s pinned to the bed by a sensation of _pleasure_  running through his body. 

This can’t be -  
“Dean.”  


His own voice seems fragile, like a whimper. This isn’t his brother. This _isn’t_ , but at the same time… he feels the same. It’s not his Dean, the brother he knows, the brother he left with his father, but it’s… it’s Dean. Somewhere else. Some _time_  else. A thought hits him and he gasps, struggles against the hold.

(It’s not a dream.)

“Easy, Sam. Don’t wanna hurt you.”  


His actions beg to differ. Sam feels a grip over his wrist, a yank at his hand when it’s pulled up above his head, and Dean retreats just to look at him. He looks different: older, for one. Desperate for second. His lips are chapped, worn by malnutrition or some other horror, and his skin is dirty like his scent is. In the low lighting that the window gives to the room, Sam can still make apart the thousand freckles upon his skin, like he’s spent a whole summer outside. He shudders. The kiss has made him hard.

A part of him wants to ask the obvious: _who are you?_  
Nothing comes out. His lips part and Dean’s gaze falls to them: there’s something predatory about him, cold. His free hand slides down Sam’s chest, mapping out his shape underneath, palm flat and fingers curved as if to comb his skin through the fabric of his shirt. He hesitates, frowns.  
“Huh. A weird dream,” he seems to be saying, but Sam can’t hear him, can’t tell for certain; he struggles again, but Dean’s good at holding him down.  


Too good. Much better than he’s ever been when they’d practiced together, and when Sam could always throw him off if he wanted to - and yet he’s not afraid, just confused, paralyzed by the strangeness of it all and the throbbing in his neck where Dean’s lips crashed with his skin. He isn’t any more prepared when this strange Dean pulls down again, mouth over his, and claims him like he’s there for the taking. Sam’s free hand presses against this Dean’s chest and pushes him back, but he resists and doesn’t so much as budge.

(It _has_  to be a dream.)

“C’mon, don’t resist.”  
The words are spoken mouth to mouth, and Sam almost wants to give into it. He feels Dean’s hand between them but the gasp he lets out when the man grips his cock through his boxers is audible and loud; he thinks about yelling, putting up a proper fight, but his body just pushes into the touch. God - like he’s _needed_  this. Dean lets out a small, approving grunt and his palm moves away, leaving behind an ache that Sam tries to tuck away by pushing his leg over the other.

(The weirdest, sickest dream he’s ever had.)

“You’re so - _young_.”  


Sam doesn’t know what to say to it. He’s mute, unable to form words, too taken aback by what’s happening. The lips return over his neck.  


“God, I’ve missed you so, _so_ much, Sammy. Missed you like this. Missed you, just - every day is hell without you, you have no idea. I’ll get you back. Somehow. I’ll get you back, little brother, I promise.”  


The first words Sam manages to push through surprise him as much as they seem to surprise Dean.  
“I’m right here.”  
His voice cracks. God, he misses Dean, too.

“Let me take care of you.”  
Sam’s not sure what it means, but his body tenses when Dean grips his hair again, hand parting from his burning wrist to wrestle at his shirt. He tugs it up, pulls it off: the fabric crosses Sam’s face violently.  
“Let me show how much I’ve missed you, Sam.”  


He lets himself be undressed, but he can’t participate when Dean starts stripping off his own clothes. He just stares at him, at the jacket he’s never seen in his life, at the gun holster tied around his thigh, at the dirty shirt underneath the jacket and the torn jeans that smell of grass and mold. Then the other’s hand returns to his cock, now unrestricted by any cloth - Dean’s grip is tight and knows exactly what it’s doing when he moves his fist up and down along the length, and Sam’s eyes press closed to the sheer bliss of it, the strangeness of the whole situation, and he bucks his hips into the touch.  
“God, Dean -”  


There’s a sound nearby, something Sam barely recognises, but the smell of lotion fills his nostrils and he knows to expect a hand over his thighs, pushing his legs apart. He knows what comes next and the thought of it makes him tremble: he raises his body to greet the touch, his whole chest aching with longing, guilt and something else as Dean’s finger makes its way to his body, pressing lightly upon his entrance, the lotion cold but warming quickly between their bodies.  


“This is just a dream, right?” he asks, uncertain, as he parts his legs further to invite the touch.  
What he does in his dreams doesn’t matter. It’s his own space. This isn’t the first fucked up dream he’s had, though it sure as hell is the strangest.

“Funny you’d ask that,” Dean’s voice responds to him, the same weary, rough tone in it.  


His finger slides in, almost hot against Sam’s flesh, and Sam lets out another whimpery sound - this one’s more like a moan, something lewd that just slips out of him. Dean's finger moves impatiently inside, each touch sending waves crashing inside Sam’s body, and Sam finds his back arching to it, his lips parted and letting out heavy breaths. It feels _so good_ , and like Dean’s done this to him a million times even though he can swear that they’ve never touched each other like this; it’s like this version of Dean has felt him before, knows exactly how to please him, how to make him tremble with pleasure.

“So tight, damn, Sammy.”  
His body presses closer, lips finding their way down to Sam’s neck, to his chest; his tongue circles the left nipple in the same impatient manner that his finger is moving inside Sam’s body.  
“Like you’ve never had me in yet.”  


“Dean…”  


“Right here, Sam. I’m right here.”  


They’re so close together and everything about this Dean screams _Dean_ and _not Dean_  at once. Sam can’t stop shivering, but at least his eyes are open now, and he’s looking at this strange familiar man bent over him, worshipping his body like it’s something precious that he’s lost a long while ago, and he can’t help but think back to the _real_  Dean. How long has it been since they last even saw each other? How long more can either of them take? He swallows and shudders, this time with pain but not of the physical kind. Another finger slides in him, and it’s an easy addition, as if he’s already conditioned to the touch, and he moans, unable to recognise his own voice. His thighs ache from the strain he’s putting on them, but he can’t help but spread them even wider. His hips rock into the touch, Dean’s fingertips buried somewhere in his flesh that keeps sending insane jolts of pure pleasure inside him, and it may come as a horror to him but he doesn’t feel the slightest bit revolted by any of it: it feels almost natural to let Dean in, to feel his fingers move within him. And if he’s honest, it’s not… not enough. There’s a lingering longing between them that isn’t sated by this foreplay, and he needs _more_  to feel it even more, that sense of closeness, fulfillment, relief.

“God, I miss you so bad.”  


Sam closes his eyes, breathes in a few times to calm himself.  
“Miss you, too,” he admits, voice strangled and fragile, “Come… closer. Dean. Please.”  


Third finger; it stretches him in a way that makes his cock twitch where it rests against his stomach. He never knew how much he needed to feel that - how good it feels to be filled up like this.

“Don’t wanna hurt you. Or, just a bit. For leaving me in the first place. God, I want to hate you so bad, Sammy. I wanna, but I can’t. I can’t.”  


“I’m right here,” Sam says again, chilled.  
It hits too close home, but it makes sense. If this is his dream, of course it would latch onto his insecurities.  
“Take me. Dean - let me feel you.”  


(It’s just a dream, he can take what he wants.)

The fingers slip out of him, but it’s done with hesitation. Then a firm grip takes a hold of Sam’s waist, pulls him up, and he follows it all the way to Dean’s lap.  
“Show me, Sam. How much you need me.”

Sam’s never felt anything quite like it. He’s played with himself before, taken a finger and a second one, but he’s never - he’s never gone this far, never taken anything that wasn’t a part of himself inside him. And it feels so good for it to be Dean there beside him now, _any_  version of him; the slick feel of the top of his cock against his relaxed hole is enough to make Sam feel dizzy. He leans back, hand over his brother’s cock and mind full of the feel of it, but the tip feels so big against him he’s not sure he can take it.

“C’mon, Sam.”

He avoids Dean’s gaze, too shy to meet him now, but his whole body feels on fire as he sinks over the length. To his surprise, it doesn’t feel bad to take it in: it fills him up so good that he lets out another throaty sound, a long growling moan that sends him leaning into Dean to hide himself. He’s got the other’s arms around him now and Dean’s thighs are pressing into his on the inner side as he lowers his body down until he’s firmly seated over the man’s lap, the whole length of his cock buried inside his flesh or so it feels. He’s gasping for air, shaking, but Dean’s good at keeping him anchored there, and slowly he starts rocking his body up and down on the thickness that stretches him open. It feels _so good_ , he’s seeing stars from just the rhythm alone, but he wants it faster than this - _needs_  it, like he’s never needed anything before. His cock is leaking between them, thick white drops staining Dean’s abdomen. It doesn’t even need to be touched, the situation alone is enough to keep Sam on edge.

“Missed you,” Dean breathes into his ear, his voice running down Sam’s spine like electricity, “Missed you so bad. You still in school?”

Sam swallows thickly, forehead pressing into Dean’s shoulder. He nods, but no sound comes out.  


“Never dreamed you like this. Never had you like this. Always wanted to, never got the courage to tell you. Took too long, Sammy. I’m sorry. Sorry for letting you go. Sorry for leaving you.”

“You never,” Sam breathes, gasping for air as his body learns to rock together with Dean’s, “left me. ‘S all on me, Dean, I -”  


“Let you down. I did - I - told you. Told you to go. Shouldn’t have. God, Sam, I should have kept you close. Just like this. Just… like this.”

His grip moves from Sam’s back to his hips, guides them to move faster, and they’re both breathing into one another’s mouth now, lips close enough to kiss but afraid to gap the distance. Dean’s hungry for this, his hips taking more than settling to receive, and Sam lets him pound into him, the feel of it so overwhelming that all he can do is hold on and gasp for air: the white lights behind his lids haven’t faded, and his hand escapes from Dean’s arm and moves to fist his own cock between them. He’s close, so fucking close, but holding back just to make it last a little bit longer. And Dean’s not far either: his breathing is unsteady and hitching, he’s moaning and shivering like Sam is.

Dean crosses over first. He warns Sam beforehand, his hands pushing him up from his lap and his voice trying on the words “close, Sammy, please -” but Sam doesn’t move; there’s a sick curiosity in him, filling his aroused mind, a need to know how it feels like to take what Dean’s giving him. He feels the warm come inside him in a few pulses, and the sensation is so strange it sends him right over the edge as well: his muscles clench around Dean’s cock and Dean lets out a sound that’s halfway there to pain and halfway there to approval, and Sam holds onto him, face nuzzled against his slick body as his fist runs over and over his cock, spreading the wetness over his own skin and Dean’s body.

He crashes afterwards, the guilt and confusion right back where he left them, but Dean keeps him close and his fingernails dig into Sam’s body; Sam can’t tell for certain, but he’s almost sure there are tears on Dean’s face. He doesn’t dare to look, feels as if he shouldn’t.

He’s never been this exhausted from climaxing. Sleep rushes over him (although shouldn’t he already be asleep? Shouldn’t the dream just fade away, not end in him falling asleep all over again?) and he leans back from Dean’s lap, body landing softly on his bed. They part as he falls, and there’s a strange emptiness where Dean filled him before, still dripping with lotion and come. Dean doesn’t follow him down, but he stays there as if to watch over him, sitting on the edge of the bed and just waiting for Sam’s consciousness to fade into another dream that’ll wipe him from existence.

Morning dawns cloudy and brings with it the vague nausea of a mild hangover. There are no marks upon Sam’s body, no scratches or bites where he still remembers them when he showers again to tame his crazy hair back into submission. He’s not sure what else he expected.


End file.
